It’s been way too long since I wrote a blog. Here it goes. Unrehearsed.
It’s coming up on 26 years since taking my first motorcycle trip. July, 1994, to the Black Hills, and then on down to Estes Park, Colorado. I was on my Honda Nighthawk, and it was on the fourth day of the trip, July 18th, when I had an “experience” that has stuck with me on every trip since.
I’ve journaled nearly every trip since, maybe 17 of them by now. Short notes, longer thoughts. But something to pair with the photos to look back on. To preserve memories. I’d love to do some books.
On the 18th of July, 1994, I made notes in my tent, before leaving Custer, South Dakota for a ride down to Estes that day. What follows below is from my journal, and will pick up in “now time” after this passage.
—-O.K. 10 a.m. local time. I’m in Lusk, WY. Stopping for breakfast after the biggest adventure of the trip, so far. I ran out of gas! I was seven miles north of Lusk, on Route 85, when I ran the reserve tank dry. I’d passed only one station in more than 100 miles and didn’t think it would be my only chance. I tried using my cell phone for emergency service and got the “no service” signal. I looked to be in the middle of nowhere.
I began walking down lane towards a farm house, hoping they’d have gas, when a pick up truck pulling a horse trailer happened to be coming up the road. A father (Cody Thompson), and his son, (Ty Thompson), were on their way to a rodeo. They stopped and listened to my situation.
Without saying much, they unloaded the horse, put my bike in the trailer, reloaded the horse, and drove me into town. They have a relative who teaches ag at the University of Illinois. These were good people. Not just because they did a good deed.
We got to town, unloaded the horse (named Paint), took the bike out, and put the horse back in. They wouldn’t take money and off they went.
I had been making good time in the wide open country. I even “let the big dog eat” once, and cracked 95 mph for a very quick burst. Slow by the street racers standards, but a momentary thrill. Also, several miles back up the road, a Harley rider came upon me out of nowhere. Trailed a short time and passed. I gave him “thumbs up” but he snubbed me. My mind is that we’re all riding for the love of riding, and should acknowledge each other. Most do, including some Harley riders. But there are plenty who are on the “buy American” kick, who glare at the Japanese made “rice burners.”
He slowed awhile and I caught up, debating to pass, for fear of being shot or stabbed for “disrespecting” a Harley rider. I went around and stayed ahead until I ran out of gas. He soon passed, and made no attempt to ask if I needed help, as I stood there on the side of the road.
It was pretty warm. And I wasn’t surprised, I’d run dry. When I had to switch the tank to reserve, some miles back, I got a bad feeling about what was ahead. I was embarrassed. Could I push the bike into town? How far? There were hills. I was stuck.
The Harley rider was barely out of site when a couple on a Honda Gold Wing came upon me. “Are you o.k.,” he asked, as they had slowed down. I misunderstood and nodded “yes,” missing my chance. Still, from the time I ran dry to when I started walking towards that house, to when the truck came up, couldn’t have been more than 10 minutes. Turns out, the guys say there was no gas at that farm house anyway. Only diesel fuel.
So. I filled up and tried to restart… Nothing. It didn’t flood, I couldn’t smell gas. I was worried I’d run down the battery. I was about to panic (I didn’t when it ran dry because I saw it coming), I noticed the emergency kill switch had been set to “off.” It had to have happened during loading or unloading. I fired up and ate breakfast at Cindy’s, a local joint.—— (back to now time)
I had done pretty good at keeping in touch with the Thompsons. I had ask for their address. I sent Ty a photograph of Michael Jordan. And I sent them a postcard on every trip I took afterwards. Always thanking them, and asking them to say thanks to Paint the horse, for sharing his trailer that day.
I was back out that way in 2008, on a ride to Wyoming and Montana. I contacted Cody, told him I’d be that way, and asked if I could buy him breakfast in return for the favor he did for me 14 years before. Ty was not able to make it, but Cody and I met up. I bought him breakfast, we talked about cattle ranching, and I made a quick portrait of him. I also rode my ST-1100 north, out of town, up Route 85, to see if I could find the driveway I’d run the Nighthawk dry at. It was exactly seven miles north of Lusk. I made a photo of the ST on the driveway.
I haven’t been as good at keeping in touch since. I wonder about him and his family.
I also put gas in the tank when I think it isn’t necessary.
